ᴀᴅ ᴍᴇʟɪᴏʀᴀ ~ ᴅᴘꜱ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴋꜱ)

25 - interlude

"Amy, it's like, like 10 degrees out. Can't this wait?"

My roommate doesn't respond; rather, she continues walking, quickening her pace to just below a light jog.

"Did you talk to Charlie today? I called earlier, but nobody picked up," I continue.

Yet again, nothing. She surges ahead of me, leading by a few feet. The wind carries an unpleasant odor back to me: cigarette smoke clinging desperately onto fabric. It's not uncommon for Amy to smell of smoke, even these days as her habit has weakened, but the unusual intensity of it assaults my senses.

"Shit, Amy," I say, coughing, "did you fall into a tar pit? And then light yourself on fire?"

Amy looks at me over her shoulder, not slowing her pace at all. "I don't see what's so funny about this," she says finally.

I knit my eyebrows, getting defensive. "I don't know, I was just— trying to get you to say something."

She focuses her eyes forward again without another word. I don't say anything either; instead, I hug my hoodie closer to my body, pulling my hood onto my head and tightening the drawstrings. It fights against the mess of blonde curls on my head fruitlessly.

After four more excruciating minutes of silence, we reach the spot. The darkened graveyard of Amy and Charlie's past cigarettes dot the sidewalk in front of the English department. Amy settles into her usual spot against the brick siding and I join her. She lights up a cigarette without offering me one as I scan the night. Charlie isn't anywhere to be found.

"Wow, is Dalton late for once? Alert the presses," I joke, nudging Amy's shoulder. She ignores me, staring out in the direction Charlie generally leaves from. I clear my throat awkwardly, shoving my hands into my hoodie's front pocket.

-

Half an hour passes before either of us have the courage to speak again and, surprisingly, it isn't me.

Amy works her way through four cigs during the wait, lighting each one off of the diminishing butt of the last. There's a sort of desperation in her mannerisms; usually, Amy portrays a sense of superiority over her small ball-and-chain, trying to maintain some sense of control. Now, though, her hand trembles as she pulls out her carton, staring at the simple red design for a moment before placing the new cig between her teeth and lighting it.

I glance at the bottom left corner of the box and find it empty. Considering that I marked her most recent pack (which was full, by the way) last night, I'm concerned to find the cardboard un-marked.

Did she really get through over 20 in one day?

"He'll be here."

I snap out of my head and look at my roommate. Her eyes are still trained to her right, staring expectantly into the night. Plumes of smoke mark the border between her dark hair and the inky night sky.

"You talked to him?"

"Yeah," she says, "he called this morning. He'll be here."

"Was that why you were gone so early?"

"I wasn't gone early. You woke up late."

If she can sense that I'm staring at her, she's doing a damn good job of hiding it.

"...It's pretty cold out." I rub my arms.

No response.

"...If we wait to see him tomorrow, I'm sure he won't mind."

"He'll be here," she repeats.

"I hear you, Amy," I say with a sigh, "but it's been over half an hour. I know you don't like the cold. Let's just go back."